Chapter 388: The Appointment

Even in the other world, most televised singing performances were post-mixed. If idol stars or multi-talented celebrities who dabbled in acting and singing were to sing live, the results would be unbearable… Only those with solid vocal foundations dared to sing live at concerts.

The producers’ consensus was to head to the recording studio first, create a final track with post-production mixing, and then have the performers lip-sync during the show. This would more or less guarantee the quality of the performance.

Then came the problem: the Grid Skirt Club had plenty of people who were experts on idols and Japanese entertainment, but not a single one knew anything about music. Recording an album involved a series of professional skills like arrangement, mixing, and post-production, and their only artistic consultant, Liu Shuixin, was clueless about these things. So, for the past few days, all their rehearsals had been done with backing tracks, without a single practice session for lip-syncing.

With the official performance date drawing closer and the recording still up in the air, the producers were getting anxious. After an emergency meeting, they dispatched Zhang Bolin to humbly seek help from Nangong Hao.

Zhang Bolin, the “iron-blooded officer” of the Young Officers’ Club, often denounced as a Germanophile and nationalist, a man who preached the gospel of big cannons and frequently spouted “politically incorrect” views from the old world, was, in fact, a seasoned idol otaku. The combination of these two traits in one person was somewhat incongruous.

The folk orchestra’s rehearsal was nearly over, but there was still no sign of Zhang Bolin. Wu Ciren was starting to lose his temper. He had skipped half a day of work to be here and cheer on the girls. If the Elders in the National Police found out, they would surely chew him out for neglecting his duties. The National Police and Lingao Telecom were in the middle of a joint operation to crack down on the theft of telecommunication lines. His absence from the front lines was already highly inappropriate, not to mention the pile of documents on his desk waiting for his approval.

Just as his temper was about to boil over, he saw Zhang Bolin strolling back, beaming. The negotiations had clearly gone well.

“What? Did he agree?”

“Yes,” Zhang Bolin said with a look of mock tragedy. “He promised to start tonight—I paid a heavy price, you know.”

“You make it sound like you sacrificed your chastity,” Wu Ciren said, his mood instantly improving, and he couldn’t resist a joke. “I’ll get you a few bottles of lotion…”

“Stop with the fan-service baiting, I’m no fujoshi,” Zhang Bolin said. “Comrade Nangong is a good guy. He agreed as soon as I brought it up—no hesitation at all. I thought he’d be prejudiced against us like Okamoto and Dongfang…”

“Back in the day, Kraftwerk was also considered heretical. It doesn’t matter if they look down on our idol group; it gives us a sob story to sell later,” Wu Ciren said. “Having a sob story is an asset for an idol group. If not for the different national circumstances, I would have had them handing out flyers on the street by now.”

“That’s a job for Zhang Yunmi. We’d have to pick a day with bad weather and few people on the street, then shoot some video footage. We could use it in a documentary later: the first-generation ACE handing out flyers in the cold, rainy night…” As a veteran idol otaku, Zhang Bolin’s imagination ran wild.

“You two, stop with the nonsense,” said a hurried Dongmen Chuiyu, interrupting their daydreaming. “I think we should have them sing along with the recording a few times first. Otherwise, they won’t even know the melody when they get into the studio.”

“The three songs we chose are all in Japanese. How are they supposed to sing along?”

“Let’s have Liu Shuixin record them first,” Dongmen Chuiyu said. “Let’s split up and get this done quickly. There’s a pile of work waiting for me at the General Staff.”

Outside the Lingao Stadium, the members of the Art Troupe were unloading their equipment from the vehicles. Instruments and gear of all sizes were piled on the ground. The rising sun cast a red glow on the faces of Okamoto and Nangong Hao, but the two artists’ expressions were not so bright.

“That Dongfang! What’s wrong with him? How can he not show up for something as important as a live rehearsal!” Okamoto complained helplessly. He had long been at his wit’s end with his lazy deputy director. Seeing the soldiers from the garrison battalion who had helped move the equipment preparing to leave, he grew anxious.

“He probably overslept. He loves to sleep in, doesn’t he?” Nangong Hao was a bit calmer. “So do I,” he added with a big yawn. He had spent the entire night doing post-production for the girl idols.

“Director, Nangong, the orchestra members have assembled. Let’s go inside. It’ll take time to set up the equipment on stage anyway,” said Liu Shuixin, who had been absent for a while, as she walked over.

The “Flower of the Senate” was dressed in a floor-length, light linen dress today. The starched silk-linen blend fabric gave the dress a style that was both rustic and elegant. At first glance, one might think it was from the old world, but it was clearly newly made. A bright silver brooch seemed to reveal a clue: the Gothic letter “liu” was supported in a V-shape by two G-clefs, a touch of artistic flair amidst the opulence.

This was clearly not from the General Office’s special supply store. Okamoto knew that much; the clothes sold there were very simple, almost like uniforms or work clothes. There was nothing with such obvious style.

I have to find out where she got it, the thought flashed through his mind.

“Alright, let’s go in first. We can use the phone inside to call the Bairen dormitory and see if Dongfang is up,” Okamoto said.

Lian Nishang walked briskly, the morning breeze lifting the hem of her white tracksuit skirt. There were few pedestrians on the road along the Wenlan River at this hour, and the way to the stadium was especially empty. She could already see the plaza in front of the Lingao Stadium.

Suddenly, she stopped. Zhuo Yifan had appeared by a lamppost ahead, a faint smile on his face as he watched her. He seemed to be holding something.

“Ah? How did you get here so early? I thought you’d have trouble finding your way on your own!”

The outspoken policewoman once again displayed her habitual “naturalized citizen superiority,” as if the young master Zhuo would get lost without her guidance.

Zhuo Yifan smiled without a word. With such a magnificent building and such wide roads, I’d bring shame upon my sect if I got lost, he thought. He said softly, “I woke up early with nothing to do, so I took a stroll. I’ve heard much about the Lingao jianbing guozi at the morning market, and I happened upon a stall, so I bought some.” He held up the paper bag in his hand. “Have you had breakfast? If not, please try some.”

The paper bag contained savory crepes made from mixed-grain flour, filled with a fried cracker and slathered with a rich spicy and sweet bean sauce. Although they usually didn’t include eggs, which were scarce and expensive, making them less authentic than the original version, they were still a hit with the naturalized citizens and local populace. The verdict was: filling and satisfying. They were even more delicious with a bowl of soft tofu or soy milk.

A pampered young master like him should not have been running errands like buying breakfast. However, the policewoman Lian Nishang was one of the few reliable sources of information for this “dragon crossing the river,” and his companions all agreed she should not be slighted. The senior disciple of the Huashan Sect was now employing his skills of persuasion and charm, and he did it with a convincing flair.

Lian Nishang was momentarily stunned. She looked down and said, “Thank you for your trouble, Young Master. I’ve already eaten. You should keep it. Oh, Zuo Yamei should be here by now. Let’s hurry inside.” With that, she quickened her pace, and Zhuo Yifan followed with a smile.

Inside the stadium office.

“What? Confirmed Elder Dongfang just left the dormitory area? Good, that’s good! Thank you!”

Okamoto hung up the phone, looked up, and sighed in relief. He said to Nangong, “Well, that kid is as predictable as ever! At least he’s on his way. Let’s not wait. Let’s start the soundcheck.”

The stadium had not been cleared for the rehearsal. Firstly, the art troupe only needed the central basketball court space. Secondly, the Senate’s propaganda department hoped that the core naturalized citizens would be more exposed to “mainstream culture.” Minister Ding Ding had specifically sent reporters to cover the event, and the Lingao Times had recently been publishing articles introducing “Australian arts.” All work units were encouraged to let their naturalized citizens watch the cultural festival rehearsals. Natives were not barred either, but they were not allowed to get close to the Elders.

Zuo Yamei had arrived at the stadium early. Although the Grid Skirt Club’s rehearsal was scheduled for later, after the art troupe’s instrumental ensemble, she had been invited by her friend Lian Nishang to practice sparring today.

Of course, if it weren’t for the deep impression the handsome Young Master Zhuo had made on her during their brief encounter, the young policewoman probably wouldn’t have given up her morning sleep so easily.

She sat on a bench, chewing on a bag of Lingao-produced dried purple sweet potatoes, humming the tune of her club’s performance, and watching with great interest as the “band” directed by the Elders carried their dazzling “Australian instruments” onto the temporary stage.

Just then, a wave of chatter came from the entrance. A teacher led a group of students in Fāngcǎodì school uniforms into the venue. This was the “Excellent Student Art Observation Group,” selected by the education department from the Fāngcǎodì drama club and selection group members, specifically to be edified by the advanced culture of the Song-Australian Empire.

Fāngcǎodì had switched to its summer uniforms. The boys wore white short-sleeved shirts and navy blue trousers; the girls wore white sailor-collared blouses with red neckerchiefs and blue pleated skirts, creating a picture that was very pleasing to the Elders’ eyes.

Needless to say, among the natives, and even among the naturalized citizens, the group drew murmurs of envy. Some of the young girls looked as if their eyes were about to shoot fire.

Even Zhuo Yifan, who wasn’t particularly interested in “Australian customs,” was captivated by the group. The aesthetic of youth and neatness was something he had never seen before.

Zhuo Yifan and Lian Nishang happened to be blocked at the end of the corridor by this group. The great hero of Huashan was very curious about the “young pseudo-Aussies” before him. It wasn’t just their strange Australian clothing; what was more striking was that these boys and girls were exceptionally lively. Not only were their faces rosy with health, but they also seemed much taller than their peers in the Ming territories.